


Rules of Engagement: Of Stubborn Titans and Orb Projectiles

by lollypoopdeck



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Age of Triumph, And More Fluff, City Children - Freeform, Destiny 2, Fluff, Forsaken, Ghost Fragment: Lord Shaxx, Guardians Are People Too, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot write small fics, I took the lore an RAN with it, Playful Hunters, Post-Red War, Red War, Stubborn Titans, Wing Contender, Wing Discipline, Wing Theorem, YOU CAN’T CATCH ME, alcohol consumption, dodgeball - Freeform, lore expansion, rated T because Red War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28953972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lollypoopdeck/pseuds/lollypoopdeck
Summary: Only Guardians owed him respect. —Ghost Fragment: Lord Shaxx
Kudos: 5





	Rules of Engagement: Of Stubborn Titans and Orb Projectiles

**Author's Note:**

> it’s a panoramic outside, WHAT!!! I do hope this fic finds you and your loved ones safe and in good health and mind!! small warning for the Red War and descriptions of violence coming later, as well as alcoholic beverages in a bar in this chap. but there is a healthy dosage of tooth-rotting _fluff_ scattered throughout! hopefully this fic can help be a distraction or source of escape for you, fellow earth residents :3
> 
> June marked a year since I first began writing this one, but I couldn't find a decent way to divide it (it's at 14.3k rn) or finish certain scenes until now, so I'm posting this at 4am. I was just—gestures vaguely— _taken_ by the fluff. I had no choice but to write.
> 
> [Ghost Fragment: Lord Shaxx](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/cards/ghost-fragment-lord-shaxx) & [2](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/cards/ghost-fragment-lord-shaxx-2), [Just Another Day at the Tower](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/just-another-day-at-the-tower), [Dawning Cheer](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/entries/dawning-cheer)

A CRUCIBLE STORY, CONT’D

PART ONE OF THREE

It all started with his egregious miscalculations, both before and during the match. It should have been a simple matter to just say _no_ , but Cayde never really knows when to _shut up_ , and so Shaxx only saw opportunity. Simpler still should have been the fight; he had the high ground, the upper hand, but was blindsided by the quicksilver speed of Golden Gun. Of course, he'd seen the draw. He was prepared for his opponent’s aim. Still, the shot fired far sooner than he’d anticipated, from the hip, low and nearly out of sight. Shaxx lost twice. _Twice_. To Cayde and his bloody _Lucky Pants_. Such swiftness should be illegal.

The promise of training _children_ only served to heighten his vexation. The wild, squeamish children running amok in the field of rocks and dirt, tearing up the already desolate ground even further with their gladiator games. But alas, Lord Shaxx—hero of Twilight Gap, Crucible Handler and voted “most feared” among the Hunters—does not bow out of a wager.

And he is _not_ afraid of _children_.

He spotted his would-be wards even before he set foot in the arena; the boy and girl were the only two of the little hellions who weren’t participating. It was high noon, the weather was moderate, the sun radiant and yet gentle. There was no reason for them to have been lounging under a tree.

Immediately, however, Shaxx got the sense these two were the runts of the bunch. The boy Lonwabo was in fact a slight lad—Shaxx figured he couldn’t be more than ten years old—and Runa was bigger than him, but still considerably smaller than the branch-wielding tyrants on the field. Size, strength, and build were undoubtedly deficient, and would not improve within a single day of training. Regardless, he made do.

Their very first match was a duo of what Shaxx considered to be young men. They were nearly half his height and all but dwarfed his team. Lean, strong, quick. Runa stood unmoving yet impartial, and Lonwabo immediately shrunk back at their imposing stature. It was of little consequence; within two seconds after match start Lonwabo was on his back, clutching at his face and visibly trying not to cry. Runa, to his surprise, had snatched a ball before the other boy and struck him in the chest. His teammate had not anticipated her agility, and so did not expect a blow to the knee. Their adversaries had been eliminated.

Their opponents' elder scooped the boys up and took them elsewhere. The move registered, but Shaxx paid it no mind. He frowned. Yes, they were victorious, but far as he was concerned, the children lost the minute it had registered that they were expected to fight those boys. Posture slackened; eyes dimmed. The battle of the mind was short-lived, for on that plane, Runa and Lonwabo had surrendered. And that alone is unacceptable—victory or defeat, Crucible or elsewhere.

He ordered Lonwabo to his feet, and the boy rose with trepidation, dirt clinging to his dark forehead. Runa gazed up at him with expectation. Shaxx did not soften his tone. “Tell me what you did wrong.” As he predicted, both their faces scrunched in confusion.

“We won,” said Runa, as though it were the most obvious fact and he had somehow missed it.

“You lacked confidence,” Shaxx corrected. The children looked no less confused. “Confidence in yourselves. You were hesitant, and Lonwabo paid the price for it. Those boys may as well have been miniature Titans, so I sympathize with your fear; but uncertainty has _no_ place on the battlefield. Ever. By all rights, quiver to your heart’s content, but you _mustn’t_ doubt yourselves.”

There was… some improvement after that. The children were still clearly scared, but seemed to take his words to heart. Intention and temperament were there, now. The next two rounds were something of a tactical disgrace, though with some effort Shaxx wrote that off. They were trying, and that was enough. Occasionally he had to step in and make corrections; “ _plant your feet, Runa,”_ and _“Lonwabo, that is not a shield! Strike him down!”_ It was a habit, he will admit. Cenuries of coaching infant Guardians has made him keen to unsound technique.

Their defeat came at the hands of the barbaric girls he saw earlier, and Shaxx almost sighed in relief. He paid no mind as the older girls celebrated with their peers and kin. Lonwabo was very nearly limping and Runa scowled after the girls, clutching a dirty ball between her hands. It was clear to him; they wanted to beat this particular team. But these children had just fought seven rounds. Seven very _long_ rounds. It was over. And despite his longing to leave this place and return to the Tower as soon as possible, Shaxx could not deny that somewhere deep down, he might have been proud.

And he had every intention of hanging the Hunter Vanguard by his ankles.

xXx

He isn’t entirely certain of what brings him back two days later.

The field is as it was when last he’d seen it—rugged and uneven—only the dirt has turned into mud and it is devoid of children.

Light droplets of rain roll down his faceplate, almost in a caressing manner. It’s not quite heavy enough to be deemed a downpour, but the sky seems rather insistent upon tending to its planet-sized garden. The weight of the water has laid many of the surrounding trees to bed; leaves are sodden and bent toward the ground, and his furs are no doubt the same. Damp and cold. He doesn’t know why he came back here.

“Lord Shaxx?”

His name was spoken with a mix of horror and awe, but Shaxx does not feel the same satisfaction he would have if he were storming through the Tower. “Shaxx is fine,” he mumbles, turning around. As he suspected, not a Guardian, but an Exo woman stands behind him, an umbrella over her head. Her purple optics blink disbelievingly.

They stayed like that for a moment—he really had nowhere to be for once, so there was no point in rushing a response out of her—his faceplate gave away nothing, but the light in her eyes spoke volumes. “What are you doing here?”

Ah. What a question, and one with so many possible meanings. What was he doing out in the rain? What was he doing here in the City? Why did he come back to the field? What did he expect to find? _What are you doing, old boy?_ He can answer neither of these questions, and he cannot help the fist that closes slightly in frustration.

Purple eyes dart down to the fist, warily. He does not respond to it. “I heard about what you did for the children,” she explains over the rain. “A noble thing, it was. They haven't stopped talking about it. Rascals would’ve been out here having a go at each other if it wasn’t for this rain.”

Really? Shaxx was positively certain he gave Lonwabo nightmares that day. Runa could cut steel with her teeth. But the sting of his loss to Cayde is still fresh; and because he knows no other way of being, he gruffs out, “there was a bet, and I lost. Nothing noble about it.”

Her eyes did not dim in disappointment as he expected them to. A grin splits her face. “But you honored it,” she insists. “That counts for something.”

_Yes, I suppose it does, but_ motive _is also a key factor here._

He shakes the thought from his mind. The woman takes it as disagreement. “No matter your intentions, you really made the children’s day. That’s _always_ a good thing.”

Shaxx is perplexed to silence. Had seven lousy games of hurling orb projectiles at poor, underdeveloped souls brought them that much joy?

“What,” he begins, confused, and the rain is starting to pick up, now, “what, precisely, did I do for them?”

Now her expression softens into something almost sad, but she retains her optimistic tone. “When the weather clears,” she nearly yells. “Come back, then you’ll see.”

And as it happens…

The very next day, three new Guardians would have weaseled their way into a Rumble match at Exodus Blue, and Shaxx would have to spend the following week figuring out how this happened and basically mother hen the triplets until Zavala would let them return to the field.

And in the midst of all _that_ , Cayde would not stop bugging him. He’d heard that Shaxx went back of his own accord—he suspects his own treacherous Ghost tipped Sundance—and whenever he could find a sliver of time to slip away from Zavala unnoticed, the Exo would lean against Shaxx’s desk, arms folded, smile cocky, and just watch him while he worked. The Titan refused to let it bother him the first handful of times, but he finally gave way to a belligerent rant, much to Cayde’s delight, when his visits began to occur twenty times a rotation. Immediately after, Shaxx began drawing up plans to launch the Exo over the Courtyard balcony.

None of them came to fruition, though. Zavala would never allow it. Sometimes it’s just relaxing to get a clear visual, is all.

Exactly 17 days passed before his schedule allowed for repose.

At 10:00 hours in the late spring, he figures the City children are either in school or asleep, and Shaxx probably should be as well, because he slept all of four hours last night and delayed the first Crucible match. On any other day he would take advantage of this rare free time, but he had it postponed for this purpose.

He takes care to stay out of sight, casually skirting along the edges of the playgrounds, though anyone with half a brain will be able to recognize his signature horn. The air is riddled with the overbearing and raucous noise of infantile laughter, a chorus that pierces his ears. The field is once again dry and lively, a strange sight so early in the morning. Shaxx can see that multiple games are taking place; a wooden sword fight, a match of disc toss, a footrace. He spots no signs of the game 'dodgeball,' or any sport remotely close to it.

He flinches at the fact that he’d just used that word. He would have to find a better name for it, for his own sanity.

The games go on. He’s been stalking for three minutes, and it is doing him no favors. The Titan ventures a bit closer now, and regrettably a few bystanding adults take note of his presence. To Shaxx's surprise, however, they don’t call attention to him. Some nod in respect, others turn around stiffly and pretend they’d never seen him at all.

Good. No distractions. That affords him more time to search.

_“Lord Shaxx is back!”_

Oh, Traveler above.

Shaxx is swarmed and then surrounded by miniature Thrall spawns, each and every one of them scrambling over one another to get to him. They jump on him and around him and pull on his holster and tug on his belt and hide under his mark. The smaller ones cling to the armor on his calves while the taller ones try to grab him by his thighs, but their arm span is not quite wide enough to fully wrap around, so they settle on entrapping his ankles.

And then there’s a mixed chorus of, “can you teach us to play dodgeball?” and, “dodgeball is boring! Let’s play Control,” and, “I wanna be a Titan when I grow up!” and, “what color is your hair, Lord Shaxx?” and, “can you be on my team?”

He cannot move lest he topple over them. They all peer up at him, and their eyes are so wide that he fully believes they might just float out of their faces.

An honorable death, he thinks.

“Ey! Y’all straighten up, now!”

One of the adults—a man of impressive height, worn jeans, a farmer by the looks of him—marches over to them, and the children release Shaxx so quickly that he suddenly feels bare.

The rugged man frowns at them disapprovingly, hands on hips. “Acting like y’all ain’t got no home training! Don’t you know who this is?”

“It’s Lord Shaxx!” they all shout in unison, and he doesn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.

“Aye, and he’s deservin’ of y’all’s respect.”

“It’s… no trouble,” the Titan says when he’s recovered enough. “Truly. I did come to observe the tournaments, after all.”

At this, the farmer takes pause. Then he smiles, and calls to the children, “well, y’all heard what he said! Partner up!”

The moment the command is made, there’s a mad dash of bodies and voices rushing to find friends.

“You can be on my team, Lord Shaxx!”

“Quit playin’ 'round, Jimi! Kenta! Partner with Jimi, you’ll be takin' on Torin and Fin.”

Shaxx cannot place the man’s accent. It’s like a mix of Miss Holliday and something more… _exotic_ , and the sea of bodies only grows thicker as he gives further instruction. Shaxx scans the field, but his eyes do not detect who he is looking for. He approaches the farmer, keeping his voice low. “Where, if I may ask, are Runa and Lonwabo?”

He scratches at the scruff on the bronze skin of his cheek. “Runa?” he asks, not bothering to be himself discreet. “Well, last I seen her, she was sittin' under that tree over yonder. She was with a boy, Lonwabo I’d reckon, but I’on know his name. Kiri! You and Sheila, let’s move.”

He doesn’t have much time until match start. He’ll have to look for them later.

xXx

The most grueling 45 minutes of his life. It was extraordinary.

Shaxx has only ever been used to candor and the unvarnished truth. Either say it plainly, or do not speak at all. He is widely feared because of it, but the Crucible demands this time and again. It is a place of learning. Mistakes are to be made, and making them is how we learn; but if one constantly overlooks poor effort and absent courage with a “good job!” then there is no real education, and the student will be lost. Learn to recognize your mistakes, confront them, and do it again—otherwise, correction cannot take root. That is what he believes. But after today, Shaxx likes to think he now knows a bit more of the politics Zavala must suffer through on a daily basis.

Children require care. Affection. _Tenderness_. He didn’t know that by offering to watch the games he’d be expected to _critique_ —and he made the unfortunate mistake of doing exactly that.

There was an obvious misstep by one of the children, resulting in a faceful of dirty rubber. The field was quiet, all eyes were on him, and Shen signaled for the Titan to speak. Shaxx had merely explained, _kindly_ , what the boy could have done to avoid that outcome.

The child wailed. And Shaxx received some rather unfavorable looks from the parents. So perhaps he wasn’t kind enough.

From that point on, it was “good job!” and “you’ll get them next time!” and “keep up the great work,” with a couple pats on the head thrown in for good measure. Shaxx was teetering on the edge of complete and utter disgust with himself.

But there was one thing that truly caught his attention—baffled him, really—and it dwarfed all discomfort: the increasing frequency of battle cries and Titan salutes. There was none of this during his first visit, and the children only seemed to grow bolder with it the more he encouraged them. Laughing louder, smiling brighter. Even after the games ended, they continued to play Guardians and chatter amongst themselves, spirits high.

_“You really made the children’s day. That’s always a good thing.”_

“Lord Shaxx.” A voice cuts through his memories before he has the chance to ponder deeper.

He turns to the rugged man. “Yes?”

“They’ve been there all mornin’,” he nods to the tree he’d mentioned earlier, “if you still wanted to see ‘em.”

Ah. “Yes. Thank you…”

“Shen,” he says, and holds out a strong right hand for Shaxx to grasp. “Full time farmer, part time referee. Wound up here one day after takin’ a stroll, and left with a crook in my back and an unofficial job.”

Both men chuckle. “An honorable station,” the Titan commends. “The children respect you greatly.”

Shen’s expression turns curious. “I wasn’t here that day you came by, but I heard what you did. They been takin’ after you ever since. Now, if you wanna talk about respect,” he shrugs, and Shaxx struggles to let the implications of that sink in. “But anyway. You’ve done your due diligence, if ya wanna see ‘em and head on back to the Tower. We appreciate you comin’ out.”

They clasp hands once more, and Shen leaves to gather the stranded dodgeballs. Shaxx strides across the field up to the same tree he found his charges hiding under last time.

A card game. They’re playing a card game. Neither one of them looks up when he approaches.

Beneath his helmet, Shaxx frowns. “You weren’t on the field today.” For the first time in centuries, he startles himself; because he sounds well-nigh like a concerned father of some sort.

Runa gazes up, a peculiar twitch to her purple nose, clearly having heard his tone of voice.

Lonwabo places two cards on the large stone between them. “We didn’t wanna play today.”

That much was clear. “Why not?” and he succeeds in keeping the words patient.

Runa was still looking at him strangely. “We just didn’t want to. And we’re not the only ones.”

Indeed, with a quick glance out of his peripheral, Shaxx could confirm that a few more children were stretched out in the dirt, doing absolutely nothing. Runa returns to her hand, telling Lonwabo to go fish.

Shaxx turns around and leaves the way he came.

On his way, he catches sight of someone familiar. The woman is with a child, enduring what must be an onslaught of stories from the morning’s games, what with the way the girl is bouncing on the balls of her feet. Purple optics flick upward, and she smiles when she sees him, mouthing a silent “thank you.”

The Lord of the Crucible nods in welcome.

xXx

He’s going insane.

Shaxx was sorting through his chest of guns and engrams, shaking his head furiously and muttering to himself. The last match of the day had just ended, and it was abysmal. A tie. Who ties in Rumble? _Four ways?_ Unbelievable.

The Titan grumbles, turning around and hauling the chest onto the counter… and comes face to face with one Ikora Rey propped up on the other side.

The Crucible glares. “What?”

Like her days in the arena, the Warlock is not fazed by his snarl. She smiles sweetly. “I never pegged you to be good with children, Shaxx.”

Oh, glorious, she came here to poke. Deliberately, Shaxx throws a few heavy clips into the chest and closes it shut. “Was that all you wanted, Warlock? Yes, I had to babysit two of the little hellions because of a bet I lost to your cohort. Apparently, they were charmed by my presence. That is all.”

To his annoyance, Ikora clicks her tongue. “Mm… Cayde tells me you went back.”

He cannot refute that, no matter how much he wants to. “Yes,” he growls, “I—"

“Three times.”

And now he stills, because whether he speaks or not, Ikora will have her answer. So, Shaxx elects to ignore, and types random words into his computer screen.

The woman chuckles, her gold-trimmed eyes sparkling with mirth. “Two of my students were in the last match. They say you were your usual self, but considerably less fractious. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a four-way tie in Rumble... and I was honestly surprised the roof is still intact. Don’t give me that look, we all know how much you hate ties.”

She slides off the counter with a practiced elegance, grinning a grin so full of syrup it would put the Cheshire Cat to shame.

Shaxx glowers. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Long enough,” she raises a brow, “to hear some complaints about orb projectiles.” He says nothing more. Ikora seems content to leave the conversation there. “Goodnight, Shaxx.”

He waits until she’s good and gone beyond the stairs to drill the chest with his fist.

“Fragile neophytes… those confounded orb projectiles.”

Shaxx glances up, and Arcite blinks at him.

He secretly considers Arcite his twin. Shaxx is aware that the Frame has intentionally outfitted himself to look like him; and according to the Guardians, he has the tendency to parrot, and does so meticulously. Shaxx has never heard him until now. He’s always found the idea flattering. To a point.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he growls smoothly, and is proud of himself for not yelling.

Arcite blinks again, unmoved. “It’s been four months, boss. You sure you don’t wanna go back? I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

Shaxx grunts. “I have other concerns. How go the modifications on Inferno?”

“They’ve been bumbling around in the dark for twenty minutes. Score is four to… negative three. I don’t think they know what they’re doing.”

He sighs. More reconfiguration, blasted thing. He might just leave it as is. “Pull them out. We’ll worry about it later.”

The Frame turns away to type at his screen. Shaxx rests his hands on the counter, falling into thought. It’s been four months. Before that, he had been to the field three times, and only twice to play with the kids. And yet… it is affecting his work. He’s been going on full-blown positivity rants, and it’s become noticeable—to the point where Ikora had come with open if mocking concerns and Arcite suggested he return to the City.

He is going insane.

xXx

The months grow longer still under the Traveler’s shadow. Longer and impossibly _busy_ as they work to bring the last of this SIVA nonsense to a close. No one can stay in a single place for more than an hour. Ships are flying everywhere. The lines for the Gunsmith wind around Eververse, and the Crucible queue is backed up twice in four days—Guardians trying to both service the Vanguard and cash their bounties in before this week is out. He’d normally leave such tasks to Arcite, but there’s simply too much backlog. Shaxx is in the middle of divvying rewards for the third straight day when he sees something peculiar on his dashboard.

A 90-minute intermission until the next match. It’s a rare sight, and more than enough for a decent lunch.

The Tower’s food vendors have a reputation almost as strong as his own in the field, but he doesn’t have an appetite for the usual, and he feels a bit like walking around. After informing Arcite, he slips away from his station, quietly. On the ground, he’s by himself. The minute his Ghost summons his sparrow, Shaxx picks up another’s presence, and he rides out with haste. It’s a fifteen-minute ride by vehicle to the nearest roadhouse; The Breakfast Gun. It’s the bar of choice for the Guardians—both for its discreet location and absurd name. He is followed the entire time.

He loses sense of his stalker when he pulls up to the corner, sparrow disintegrating. The Breakfast Gun has neither name nor logo, but the greyish blue color of its storefront stands out among the rest of the Wall's brick-red store strip. Music trickles from inside, so happy hour is clearly in effect. A group of Hunters and Titans lounge about the sidewalk, conversing amongst each other until they see him, then stand at attention. Shaxx forces himself to slow down, offering them a quick nod of salute before slipping inside.

Slightly crowded, as is expected, but not as much as it could be. A good number of the bar's patrons are attempting to have a dancing competition over by the jukebox. What few are in their seats greet him loudly, slurring their words and sloshing their drinks. Shaxx nods at them, too, weaving through drunken Guardian and mortal alike, and selects an empty corner booth with a view of the door. He surveils in silence for a few moments.

“What can I get ya?”

Chuck 31-10, The Gun's waiter, stands next to his table, wash cloth over one shoulder.

Shaxx can’t say much about The Gun’s menu, save for his semi-usual beer and burger. He doesn’t frequent the place much, but now’s as good a time as any to try something new.

“A list of your finest meals will suffice, for now.”

The frame’s blue optics blink once, and he makes a small whirring noise before producing an à la carte. “Rita prefers the nachos. Wave me down when you’re ready.”

Shaxx utters his thanks and studies the contents of the menu. Usual burger. Texas toast. Steak fries. Spicy onion rings. Quesadillas.

Something breaks and crashes to the floor very loudly. Shaxx doesn’t flinch at the noise, but his eyes dart over to the small crowd assembling near a broken table. Some idiot must have been trying to dance on it. Another check he’ll have to cut, though the numbers have been looking better in recent months since the mites came to an end. The bills spiked significantly when that broke out… totaling somewhere in the millions. This week should cost him no more than a thousand.

He sighs through his nose as they help an overly intoxicated Warlock to his feet. The dancing continues.

Kushiyaki. Tapas. French feta tartine. Calamari fritti. Strawberry salad.

“Ever tried the wings?”

Mhm. He is physically incapable of staying out of sight for any length of time. Shaxx does not look up. “No. You followed me.”

Cayde helps himself to the seat across, and doesn’t look the least bit bothered. “Well, I was coming here, anyway, s'lunchtime. Saw you out front and decided to hang back—I knew you wouldn’t wanna see me—and here we are.”

“Hmm…” Shaxx gives an unamused hum, eyes stealing a glance then returning to the paper. Buffalo wings.

“So you like the kids?”

Cayde's voice had that underhanded tone that turns a question into an answer. The Titan grinds his teeth as he tries to focus on the drinks section. An assortment of fresh lemonades, peach tea, root beer float and— “No. How are the nachos here?”

“Awesome, but I know another joint downtown who makes 'em with this special sauce. You went to see them a few times.”

“Against my better judgement, I did.” _Martini, bourbon, tequila, gin, fruit wine—_

“You need a little Buffalo in your life, old pal,” he suddenly decides, and waves Chuck down. The two are quick—Shaxx doesn’t even have time to sputter before Cayde gives the order: two large plates of hot buffalo wings with a side of fries. The Hunter then casually turns to Shaxx as though all was _well_. “What’re we drinkin'?”

Beneath his helmet, Shaxx scowls, then smirks. “Ale.”

Cayde pauses briefly—Shaxx allows himself a moment’s pleasure in catching him off guard—and begrudgingly asks for a bowl of bleu cheese. Chuck's eyes bounce between them, and the frame makes a noise that… that sounds like a grainy… _chuckle_... before collecting the menu and running off to fulfill the order.

The Exo levels a glare. “Figured you wouldn’t fancy being drunk on the job.”

“It takes more than a single mug to best me,” Shaxx huffs, “and I’ll not be the one responsible for bringing you back to Zavala full up on whisky.”

“Pfft. I can hold just fine.” He sniffs. “But ale sucks.”

“That’s why I chose it.”

“I know.” But he isn’t one to dishonor an agreement (or repayment), spoken or otherwise. Cayde folds his arms atop the table and looks at him solemnly. “You gonna tell me about the brats?”

No longer holding a menu, Shaxx's large arms sit limply, taking up half the table. His hands are curled into loose fists; he _refuses_ to twiddle his thumbs. “Don’t call them that.” Cayde's eyes grow wide for a brief moment. Shaxx continues, “their games are crude. Skills are even worse, but they possess some cunning and creativity at least. Not much in the way of agility either, but with time and a rigorous schedule, they can build—”

“I didn’t take you there to audition Crucible activists! _Did you like them_?”

That’s the second time. “ _Why_ is my _liking_ _them_ so important?”

“That’s a yay or nay question.”

They stare at each other for a minute.

“… I am not opposed to their presence.”

Cayde says nothing at first, his eyes looking distant. The he nods once—a jerky movement—and sits back, fingers drumming on the table. “Good enough. I’m probably gonna ask you to go back in a few weeks.”

Though he can’t see it, Shaxx pops an eyebrow. “For what reason?”

“I already said: I make sure a Guardian they know comes around to see them. Helps keep ‘em from nosing around and getting into places they shouldn’t be.” He flicks at a loose bit of dirt lazily. “Plus, they get to see actual Guardians. And Guardians get to see actual civilians. Win-win.”

Shaxx follows another piece of dirt as it flies off the table. “I wasn’t on their list of choices, last time. Something changed?”

“Yeah. You went back.” Another bit. Someone didn’t clean this table thoroughly. “Guys I send don’t normally go back. Not on their own, and not three times within a month. And they _never_ go without some kind of kickback. But, y’know, that’s because they’d rather be out there killing stuff and not babysitting. There’s Chuck.”

Chuck arrives with their food, one arm loaded up with plates and bowls and the other hand carrying two large mugs. “Rita says it’s on the house,” he tells them once they’re situated. “No tip necessary, either.”

The Titan and Hunter pause. “That’s—”

“I’m not taking messages on this one, fellas,” he laughs, raising his hands. “You wanna pay, take it up with her.” Both Shaxx and Cayde grumble out a confused thanks and Chuck leaves them with a thumbs up.

Cayde wastes no time digging in. “Now I know—” he says while dipping two meaty wings in his sauce— “it’s some kind of mystical taboo for you Titans to remove your helmets in public—” and shoves one of them in his mouth— “but I don’t think Ghosts can transmat that way.”

Shaxx allows himself a chuckle. His helmet recedes, and Cayde laughs.

They eat in silence—or relative silence, the wings are excellent and Shaxx _will_ be having these again—for a good while. The music doesn’t stop and the dancing continues; more and more patrons trickle in but their corner and the surrounding seats are left undisturbed. Shaxx suspects Rita’s hand.

As if reading his thoughts, Cayde says around a mouthful of fries, “we’re definitely paying them.”

“Yes, we are,” he confirms, lifting his mug. “And there’s a debt to cover, as well.’

“Mhmm… there’s about to be another.”

A second crash and burn, but this one is accompanied by a strong voice telling them to cut it out. Rita-4’s petite green form moves through the crowd, setting everybody straight, as usual. She’s never been afraid of the Lightbearing soldiers who constantly tear up her bar. The Exo’s no-nonsense attitude far outweighs her physical appearance, and this is something the Guardians respect.

Shaxx watches her yank up a scrawny Hunter, but directs his next words to Cayde. “The kids want me to return.”

“Yes.” He takes a swig of ale. “Eugh. Yeah. They want everybody back, but you like them—more or less—and you’re one of the few who’re at my figurative disposal.”

Shaxx twirls the last of his cleaned bones between his fingers, considering. Eventually, “very well.”

Cayde doesn’t stop working at his last piece of chicken, but he’s fighting a smirk for some reason. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

The grin wins out, and Cayde nods once more. “Good.” Both their plates are now cleaned, and Cayde signals for the waiter. “My turn this week?”

“Mhm.”

Instead of Chuck, it’s Rita who comes to collect their table. “Nice to see you two,” the Exo smiles, pink optics glowing bright. “Been a while since we’ve had either of you here.”

“I’d come by more, but. Zavala’s gonna Zavala,” Cayde cracks, stretching his arms across the chairs. “And everything was excellent, as usual. How was last week’s damage?”

“We definitely had _more_ things break,” she says while stacking the empty plates, “but it was less in cost than the week before.”

“That’s good.” Cayde then holds out his palm, on which Sundance appears. “I spoke to some of them about their conduct earlier. Hopefully it stuck.”

“Wait for Saturday,” Rita points out. “Last weekend you all were working; hardly anyone came by for more than a pick-me-up. I’ll be shocked if the strip itself isn’t in flames by midnight.”

“Overgrown children, the lot of them,” Shaxx grumbles, and Rita laughs lightly.

“They’re not making it any easier on your pockets, that’s for sure.”

“Speaking of,” the Hunter intones, “Sundance just transferred five thousand to you, Shaxx.”

Shaxx nods, instructing his Ghost to transfer the money to Rita’s account. The green Exo visibly stiffens, however, and her faceplates move to frown. “That’s too much.”

“Oh, well. That’s a one-way wire—”

“One thousand at _most_ would’ve been enough!”

They look to Shaxx, who shrugs. “There is no fixing those tables.”

Rita allows an appreciative grin. “A replacement table will cost no more than a hundred, Shaxx.”

“Well,” he shrugs again, swirling what’s left of his drink, “consider it insurance for the weekend. After the last two months we’ve had, they _will_ be here. Send me the bill and let us know when it runs out.”

xXx

They leave The Gun together with a twenty-minute cushion.

“Five was a bit much, wasn’t it?”

“In amount, or the fact that it left _your_ account?”

“The last thing. Like, they won’t go snooping around my statements for no reason, but Ikora will _definitely_ see it.”

“You transferred it to me. If she does ask, just say it was a wager.”

Their sparrows materialize, then. The Exo elbows him excitedly. “We could make it more convincing and race back.”

Shaxx looks over his shoulder to the still-lounging Guardians not-so-subtly listening to their conversation. “You’ll not gamble whilst I’m associated with you.” And he takes off.

It’s an _expensive_ ruse. But at the very least, it helps Rita keep things running, and it keeps Zavala from finding out about the Guardians’… _frequent_ recreational activities. They can do that much for them.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, our bois are running a scheme to keep Zavala from discovering what goes on at The Gun because they’re cool like that. also cookies to the person(s) who can spot a D2 easter egg/reference concerning this bar d^_^b I intend for this fic to adhere to lore, but I have a tendency to imagine stuff, so be on the lookout for liberties >:)
> 
> can’t say when #2 will be up. I will say this fic is _probably_ mostly written. at present it's just a matter of surviving skwool, the apocalypse, and writing in scenes and fixing errors
> 
> stay safe, Guardians <3


End file.
